The Case Of The Vainshed Groom. Sheryl Lynn
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He added in aside to Dawn, “She’s a trainee.”
“I mean Elise.” Kara’s cheeks turned pink. “Ross, dear, get lost. Don’t pay any attention to him, Miss Lovell. My brother thinks he’s a comedian.”
Ever since Quentin had insisted they hold the wedding and spend their honeymoon at Elk River Resort, Dawn had spoken many times to Elise Duke—Ross’s wife, she’d assumed. Now she realized she had misinterpreted the relationships. Ross and Kara were siblings and Elise was their mother. She felt a prickle of annoyance. As talkative as Quentin was, he could be terribly vague at times.
Quashing her irritation, she picked up a pen to sign the computerized slip Kara placed on the counter. Seeing clearly in her mind’s eye her father’s disapproval, she hesitated. “Conspicuous consumption is a certain sign of poor breeding,” he’d often told her.
What could be more conspicuous than to spend an idle week at a luxurious mountain resort? Quentin had been perfectly reasonable in his arguments. “You deserve it, darling. I’ll be busy the entire week and I can’t bear to think about you rattling around in that big lonely house, getting on your own nerves. Do it for me. Have fun. Walk in the woods. Play some tennis. Soak in the hot springs. I want you relaxed, suntanned and happy for our honeymoon.”
“Is there something wrong?” Kara asked. “Is your name spelled correctly?”
Dawn swallowed hard and signed the registration card.
Ross picked up the room key and nodded as he read the number. “The view will make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven, Dawn. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
Kara’s eyes narrowed. “Stefan will show her to her room. Don’t you have something to do, Ross?”
He gave the question a moment’s thought before widening his eyes and shaking his head. “Nope. Only thing on my agenda this week is showing Dawn a good time.” He tossed the key and caught it in a graceful downward swipe.
“You better watch out for the Colonel.” Kara slammed a drawer under the counter.
“I’m shaking in my boots, sweetheart.” Ross swept Dawn toward a staircase.
Bemused by the interchange, Dawn waited until they reached the second floor before asking Ross about the Colonel.
“You’ll meet him. He’s my dad.”
“You call him the Colonel?”
“Everybody calls him the Colonel.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. “He even calls himself the Colonel. I bet every morning when he goes in to shave, he salutes himself in the mirror.”
She supposed every family had its eccentrics. Except hers, of course; her parents had been the epitome of social grace and exemplary decorum. Eccentricity had never been tolerated in her home.
He stopped before Room 208 and dropped his hold on her arm. His release relieved her. His warm hand had been too possessive for comfort. When he turned his back to her, she rubbed her inner elbow briskly.
“It’s most generous of you to have your family living and working at your resort.” She admired the carpet; its Southwestern design made the windowless hallway cheerful.
Ross pushed open the door. “My resort?” He laughed. “Elk River is the Colonel’s baby, not mine. I only visit when I get nostalgic for some abuse from Mom and the girls. Do you have sisters?”
Now thoroughly confused, she shook her head. She’d completely misunderstood Ross’s connection to the resort.
“You’ve already met the baby, Kara. She’s still in college, so she only works here in the summertime. You’ll meet the other two soon enough. Janine’s the oldest. She runs the joint. Don’t let her cutie-pie looks fool you. She has the soul of a riverboat gambler holding four aces. Megan is in the middle. Don’t let her sucker you into a tennis match. She’ll take your head off.” He swept an arm in a wide, graceful gesture. “Ta-da! The Jesse James suite. Welcome.”
She crept inside. Her breath caught at the sight of so much sunshine drenched loveliness, and yes, rustic charm. The outer wall consisted of a massive bank of windows—Ross had not exaggerated about the view. Mountain peaks rose, baldly majestic, in the background. Despite its being June, snow was frozen in rivulets on the highest peaks, glittering like liquid pearls. Over the dark pine forest, checkered with bright patches of aspen trees, a hawk soared weightlessly.
“The Jesse James suite?”
“Do you know how the outlaw died?”
The vulgarities of history—especially concerning the notorious—had never been considered a fitting interest for a Lovell. She shook her head.
“Shot eight times and left for dead. Somehow, he managed to climb onto his horse and make it here. This used to be a brothel. The highest-class cathouse in the Rocky Mountains. Cattle barons traveled for days to sample the fancy women Madame Belle imported from Europe. Jesse and Belle were longtime friends, so she hid him from the posse in this very room and did her best to keep him alive.” Ross turned a mournful gaze upon the bed. It had a wrought-iron headboard crafted into a trellis of climbing roses and singing birds. “He died right there.”
Dawn took a few steps closer to the bed. Tingles of pleasurable fear squeezed her diaphragm. “He died here?”
“It’s not the same mattress. Some folks have seen Jesse riding a black horse down the hallway. His ghost always disappears into this room.”
“A ghost?” She turned to him with wide eyes. “This room is haunted?”
Ross made a strangled noise, then burst into laughter.
She looked between him and the bed, his laughter distracting her from coherent thought. The only thing she could focus on was the rich warmth of the sound and his handsome face creased in good humor.
Then she got it. “Mr. Duke, you made it all up.”
He shook a finger at her. “One of these days I’ll get that story out without cracking up. Definitely need to work on my delivery. And call me Ross.”
“Honestly! You shouldn’t tell tales about ghosts.”
“People like ghosts.”
He had a point. Until Ross began laughing, she’d been enjoying the idea of a sharing a room with a ghostly outlaw. She chuckled, and covered her mouth with a hand. Imagining her credulous face as she drank in Ross’s tale turned the chuckle into a laugh. She distracted herself by examining the beautifully crafted bed.
“The resort has history, but not of the shoot-’em-up, wild-west variety. The original lodge was built in the 1920s for a hunting club. They sold it to some back-east investors just in time for the Great Depression. The place was deserted until the fifties when Jute Hailstone bought it.”
“The cowboy actor?”
His smile dazzled her. “You’re a B-grade western fan?”
She blushed. Few people knew about her affinity for great old, bad movies.
“Jute turned it into a dude ranch. When he died, his kids didn’t want it, so they sold it to Ralph Beerson. He upgraded it into a resort and added the wings. The Colonel bought it from him.” He waved a hand in dismissal.
“I’ll be glad to tell you about it later.”
He moved across the room. Trying to keep at bay the schoolgirlish urge to stare openmouthed at his every move, she watched him. Tall and lean, he moved with an athlete’s smooth grace. His casual knit shirt fit snugly over his broad shoulders, but draped elegantly on his torso. He looked much younger than Quentin’s forty-two years. She liked the way his hair curled in back, barely brushing his shirt collar.
She caught herself twisting her engagement ring and made herself quit.
He opened a cabinet, revealing a television set and